All was not well at the old Nichols' house. Though it was peaceful, and the young woman in residence had proven to be polite and warm to the locals, there was a sense about the plot of land where she lived that something was wrong. It wasn't truly palpable, but visitors were aware of some sense of emptiness lingering that was more than a little unsettling. Imagine, then, how unsettling that feeling was for Katrina herself.

It had been some weeks since she and Randal had last spoken, since she had behaved badly enough to make him disappear. The house had felt empty ever since, no sense of his presence to be found anywhere; not even in the music room, where she'd spent several hours playing her grandmother's music in the hope of luring him out. She missed him, far more deeply than he could have imagined. The impression he had left on her was more permanent than any other, she was certain of that. But as the days turned into weeks, she started to lose what little hope she had of seeing him again.

After weeks of her moping around, her friends had finally convinced her to come out with them for the evening, and she had finally accepted the invitation, leaving the beautiful house utterly empty for the first time since it had been built, all those decades before.

There was a loneliness in that emptiness, as if the house itself was a living, breathing thing, its heart empty and alone; or perhaps it was just the first time in decades that the house had been that quiet, that alone, that empty. There was no telling where the master of the house had gone. If he still roamed the house, he was utterly quiet about it. It was as if he had gone for good, never to return, or perhaps, that he'd never been there at all.

It was after midnight when the new mistress of the house returned, almost dreading stepping back into that aching loneliness once again. It seemed as though at least one of her friends had noticed her reticence. He was an old friend, someone she had gone to school with and only recently reconnected with, but she was grateful for his company as they stepped over the porch.

"Thank you for walking me to the door, Noah," she smiled, setting the key in the lock.

"Well, I kind of have an ulterior motive," Noah chuckled mildly. "I need to use your loo."

Katrina hesitated for a moment, the old uncertainty about being alone with someone raising its head, but she shook it off. "All right," she agreed, half-amused by his confession. "But don't stay too long. You have to get up for work in the morning." She pushed open the door, inviting him in with directions to the nearest bathroom.

If the presence that had once made itself known in the house had any objection to the young man's arrival, there was no sign of it. No tell-tale chills or thumps or footfalls or whispers; nothing to hint that anyone or anything was there but the two of them or that anyone unseen might be watching.

Noah grinned and headed for the bathroom, and in his absence, Kit moved to the kitchen, putting together a pot of coffee. Perhaps it was late in the evening for her to be drinking caffeine, but she didn't want to sleep. There was nothing to keep nightmares away now that she was totally alone in the house. She heard the toilet flush, and Noah's footsteps as he searched her out. "I had a good time tonight," she told her friend, nodding as though insisting it was true. "Thank you for dragging me out."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "The good time doesn't have to end here."

"What?" Kit raised her head, surprised and a little wary of that comment from him, in time to let out the barest of muffled yelps as she found herself yanked hard against him, his mouth covering hers in a kiss she did not want to accept at all.

There seemed to be a slight change in the house, so subtle, so slight as perhaps not to be noticed right away by the pair of young people who were struggling against each other. It was as if the house had come back to life, or perhaps the life that was trapped here for eternity had returned to make himself known once again.

For all her strength when it came to woodworking, Kit was woefully outmatched against another human being, protesting against the kisses Noah was forcing on her as he pressed her back against her own fridge door. She pushed at his arms, his chest, finally managing to break her lips from his to shake her head. "No ....Noah, get off ....stop ..."

"Don't be a tease, Kitty-Kat," he murmured against her throat, barely seeming to notice how unresponsive she was in his arms as his hand lowered to pull at the hem of her dress. "You've been wanting a guy between your legs for weeks."

The ghost of the house was happy enough to find Kit with a young man her own age, so long as he was polite and well-mannered. It was no secret he thought she should find someone her own age - someone who was living and breathing - to share her time with, but this" This was not what the ghost or Kit, most likely, had had in mind. The change in the house was subtle at first, a change in the temperature as the air turned chilly enough that they could both see their breath, even if they didn't notice right away. When the boy didn't retreat at Kit's warning, but only tried to force himself on her further, the chill grew noticeably colder, but it was only when he went for the hem of her dress, that the back door flew open, slamming against the wall, as if a harsh wind or storm had thrown it open, though the weather was perfectly calm, with only a light breeze blowing.

The chill was something only Kit noticed, deep relief coursing through her at the sudden realization that she was not as alone as she had come to think. Randal was still here, somewhere, keeping an eye on her. But it was only the sudden slam of the back door bursting open that stilled Noah, making the young man jump back from Kit in alarm.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, stamping toward the door to slam it closed once again, turning the key in the lock. He turned back, to find Kit with one of the ever present steak knives in her hand.

"You need to leave," she told him, her voice shaking. "And you need to do it now."

The man she'd thought was her friend laughed at her. "Come on, Kitty," he snorted, shaking his head. "You're not going to stab me." He feinted left, catching her hand and knocking the knife away as she followed the movement, pulling her back against his chest. "Just relax," he suggested against her ear, hands already roaming once again despite her struggles. "You'll enjoy it if you do."

"Please, Noah, please stop," she whimpered, frightened enough to dare calling out the one name that came to mind. "Randal!"

"I don't care," she whispered,shaking her head against the rough wool of his uniform. "I feel when I'm with you. I'm safe. And even without you, I wished. Please don't go away for so long again. I can't bear it." She raised her head, looking into his eyes with her own tearful gaze, willing him to see the sincerity, the truth she was speaking.

He felt as though his heart was breaking, seeing her tears, knowing how much pain he'd caused her, and he wondered if it wouldn't have been better if he'd never showed himself to her, if she'd never known he existed. And yet, it was already too late for that. The little girl he'd tucked into bed all those years ago had grown up and returned, to claim her place here in this house - a house that he'd built and that now belonged to her. "No, I won't," he told her quietly, stroking her hair, not yet realizing he was accomplishing the impossible. "I won't leave. I can't leave. I'm sorry we argued. I don't think I could bear it if I lost you."

Dark eyes deep with unnamed tenderness gazed into his, as unaware as he of just what was happening here. All that mattered was that he had come back - the impossibility that he was holding her in his arms had yet to penetrate her mind. "You're not going to lose me," she told him, as certain of that fact as she was of any other. "Even if I died tomorrow, I wouldn't leave you, Randal. I know I wouldn't."

"Don't talk like that, Kit. You're not going to die. You have a long life ahead of you," he assured her quietly, his heart - or what felt like his heart - aching at the thought that anything might ever happen to her. Even when she grew old and died someday, there was no guarantee they'd be together. This was his burden to bear, his curse, not hers, and as he remembered that, he realized how impossible it was that he was holding her there as he was.

She smiled faintly as he missed the point, and abruptly yelped as the solid reality of him beneath her hands snapped out of existence. Falling forward, into his crouched form where he had been holding her, she groaned as her forehead bounced off the cabinet behind him, chuckling just a little. "That wasn't quite my point, but never mind. What just happened?"

He looked as perplexed as she was, perhaps even more so, not only because he could no longer hold her but because she'd gotten hurt because of him. What was it that caused him to be able to become solid one minute and indistinct the next' "I don't know. You were upset and I....I just reacted. I wasn't thinking much about it." He looked at himself, at his own hands, which had once again become as insubstantial as mist, a puzzled frown on his face.

She crawled backwards, out of his space, and sat on her rump, rubbing her forehead in mild confusion. "You were angry with Noah," she pointed out, "and you could open the door, and move things. You threw him out bodily. But you told me you have little or no control over whether you can manipulate the environment around you. Perhaps you do have control, you just don't know how to harness it."

"But I didn't open the door," he pointed out. "I was angry, yes. He was going to hurt you." He stayed where he was near the floor, so that he was at eye level with her. Had she really touched him' Had he really held her close" If only he could sort out how it had happened, so that it could happen again. There had to be a way, but how" He glanced in the direction of the door, which was now closed, Noah - or whatever his name had been - gone, he hoped, for good. "I don't know how to explain it, but I willed myself here, and here I was."

"You must have opened it somehow," she said quietly. "I saw him, he locked the back door after it blew open the first time. There is no way it could have opened on its own, not without some intervention. But if you become solid when you're angry ....why were you angry with me just now" You didn't seem angry at all, you ..." She trailed off before she could finish out loud. You seemed loving.

"No, I wasn't angry with you," he confirmed. "I was worried about you. I..." There was that puzzled frown again. "I wanted to hold you, to wipe away your tears. I wanted to comfort and console you. I wanted to help you," he told her, clearly as confused as she was about what had just happened. "Do you remember when you were little, when I tucked you into bed?"

She smiled, her hand falling from her forehead as she nodded, more affection in her gaze than perhaps he was comfortable to see. "You keep asking me that," she told him gently. "Of course I remember. I always have."

"I didn't think much about it then either. You looked cold, and I just did what needed to be done." He wasn't quite sure that was the key, but they were getting closer. "I wish I could sort it out," he said, with a sigh.

Kit watched him, her expression warm but a little calculating as she considered something afresh. "You've always looked after me, haven't you?" she asked quietly. "Ever since I was child. Why me, Randal" Why not my mother before me?"

There was a question he wasn't quite sure he could answer without some thought. "Come," he said, moving to his feet, or seeming to, offering her a hand, though he could no longer touch her. "Let's go somewhere more comfortable." For her sake, at least. It didn't much matter to him.

She couldn't help smiling at the hand he offered to her, just a little bittersweet at the knowledge that she couldn't take it. Pulling herself onto her own feet, she rubbed her neck, wiping away the memory of unwanted lips from her flesh. "Are you telling me to go to bed, Captain Nichols?"

Up went a single brow in a hint of surprise. "If that is where you'd be most comfortable," he replied. "I would ask that you remain dressed this time, however," he added, hoping she wouldn't get angry with him or hurt by his request. Unlike the young man he'd chased away from the premises, he was trying to be a gentleman.

She blushed, lowering her eyes in shame for what she had done to him the last time they spoke. "I'm sorry," she whispered, knowing it was only words. Deep down, she wasn't sorry for making him look at her, for making him see her as more than just her grandmother's granddaughter, or the child he had tucked into bed all those years before.

"I like the idea of you watching me sleep, if that's what you want to do," she offered, hopping to get her panties off as quickly as possible while his back was turned. One hand groped for the pajama bottoms lying on the bed. "I am sorry I was so aggressive. I suppose I'm just too sensitive about some things."

"We are from two different worlds, I suppose. I had not realized how much things had changed." He really was an antique, out of touch with the world and the changes that had occurred over the last century, despite her grandmother's attempts to keep him abreast of the changes. "I'm told there was another war." He sighed a little as his thoughts drifted. "As if the one war wasn't terrible enough."

Kit sighed softly, uncertain how much she should tell him about the events of the world at large. Decent once more, she sat down on the bed, frowning a little. "There have been wars fought almost constantly for nearly a hundred years," she said quietly. "The Great War is now known as the First World War, and the one that followed is the Second World War. But at any given time, somewhere in the world, people are dying because of politics."

"Men will never learn, will they?" he pondered quietly, unable to imagine any worse horrors than those he'd witnessed in war. If he knew what had happened after that first war had ended, he would likely be horrified. "Your grandmother tried to explain, but I'm not sure I was ready to know."

"She was a child during the Second World War," Kit offered, tucking her legs underneath the covers comfortably. "It's safe to look around now ....She was evacuated to Yorkshire with most of her friends. There was a lot of bomb dropping on civilian targets, and they wanted to keep the children safe."

"Yes, she told me a little about that. It must have been terrifying," he said as he slowly turned to face her, relieved she was safely tucked into bed, almost wishing he could join her. "She told me a little about the raids on London. It seems men have invented even more efficient ways of killing each other."

"Did she tell you about Hiroshima?" she asked quietly, and it was clear from the dull tone of her voice that Kit considered the dropping of the atomic bombs on both Hiroshima and Nagasaki to be among the worst crimes ever committed. "War is evolving all the time."

"Yes, but it is hard to understand such destruction or the need for it," he replied. For a man who'd willingly gone off to war, it seemed he was not very fond of it. "This talk of war is too depressing. We should talk about something else," he suggested, moving closer, but remaining standing, a little bit awkwardly.

She nodded in agreement, briefly glancing down at herself to make sure she wasn't displaying anything unseemly. "Why are you so uncomfortable, Randal?" she asked him softly. "You didn't answer my question downstairs, and now you look as though you'd rather run away than stay and talk to me."

"It's just....rather awkward, isn't it' With you in your pajamas in bed, and me, standing here in my uniform. I wish I could change into something more comfortable, make a cup of tea, curl up in a chair near the fire, but I can't, can I" Even if I sit down, I'm not really sitting. I don't....feel anything, Kit. Nothing physical at any rate. Only one night a year, as it were," he tried to explain again, though he wasn't sure if she'd quite understand what it was like to be a remnant of your former self.

Her expression was sad as he tried to explain, compassionate rather than pitying. "I wish I could help," she confessed softly. "I can't imagine how it must be for you, but you can feel some things. Surely what happened downstairs proves that, in some way, you do have the ability to touch the world. And I meant what I said. I would rather have just one night a year with you, than a lifetime of every day with someone else."

"It would seem so, though I've no idea how it works." He moved a little closer, affecting an ability to seat himself on a chair, though it was more for her benefit than for his. There was a frown on his face at her admission, touched by her feelings for him, but not wanting her to give up on life because of him. "That is not much of a life, Kit. You deserve so much more than that," he told her sadly, repeating what he'd told her earlier. If there was only a way he could undue what he'd done all those years ago.

She smiled gently. "It's my life, Randal," she reminded him. "And it's my heart. I feel a connection with you, and it's something deeper than I've ever felt before. I feel safe with you. And I haven't had that for a very long time."

"You don't think it's strange with me being so much older than you? I knew you when you were a child, Kit. I've watched you grow up, when I could. To be honest, there was a time when I wished I was your father. I never had a child of my own, and your mother..." He broke off before he said too much. "But now that you're a woman, I am very much glad I am not your father."

She chuckled a little, shaking her head. "I don't think of you as being so much older than me," she tried to explain to him. "You're just ....well, you. You can't be more than thirty, and I'm twenty-four. That isn't such a huge gap." At the mention of her mother, and the implied mention of her father, her expression darkened. "My mother didn't behave very well toward my dad. He was still in love with her, even when he died. There's a little part of me that won't forgive her for what she did to him."

"Yes, well..." He frowned again, not wanting to say too much bad of the dead. It was ironic, in a way, the way her mother's actions nearly mirrored those of his wife. "I'm afraid I could never forgive your mother any more than I could forgive Isabelle." He wondered for a moment if that was what had drawn him to Kit in the first place - the sense of loneliness she'd felt at her father's absence. "You used to ask about him when you were little. You cried yourself to sleep some nights. I'm not sure I was of much help. You were probably too young to remember it now."

"I adored my dad," she mused softly. "I never liked Roger, and he never liked me. I was glad when he ran off with that weirdo from the Post Office." A faint smile touched her lips - her mother's tantrum over being treated the same way she had treated her husband had gone on for days, and Kit could remember her grandmother pulling faces behind her every time she started up on the subject. "I don't remember much from when I was little here," she admitted in a quiet tone. "I remember the first time I got dumped, though. I don't think I ever saw you, but I think you helped me get over it. I never felt alone in this house."

"Alone?" he asked, clearly shocked. "What about a medium' I've heard of such things. Seances and such." There was that frown again. The problem was that anyone with any real talent was more likely to pick up on his presence in the house and the tragedy of his death than anything else. "Perhaps, it's only some strange dream," he added, offhandedly, seeing the concern and even fear on her face. If it was Isabelle who'd been haunting her dreams all these years, he'd like to know why.

"I wish you could hold me while I sleep," she whispered softly, almost ashamed of herself for admitting to this wish when she knew how cruel it was to fall in love with him in the first place. "I'll see if I can find someone who can read the house. Someone with real talent should be able to pick up on more than you, surely."

He frowned at her again, wishing the same thing, but there was nothing he could do about it. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere," he assured her, with a faint smile he hoped she'd find comforting. He wondered if he should dig a little deeper into this mystery himself, but he wasn't quite sure what to do. "Kit, I promise I won't let any harm come to you, so long as you are within these walls." It was, for the moment, the best he could do. He leaned forward, out of impulse, to take her hand, but drew back when he realized it was impossible.

The gratitude in her eyes was matched only by the absolute trust she had in him, reaching out toward his hand. "Hold your hand up," she told him quietly, raising her own palm to his. It was the closest they could come to touching one another, and yet oddly, felt as intimate as any physical touch they might have shared. "Don't hate me for loving you, Randal," she whispered, half-afraid just saying the word aloud would send him running for cover once again. "I need you."

One brow rose in curiosity, but he did as she asked, raising that hand once again to mirror hers, palm to palm, close but not quite touching. It was her whispered words that surprised him, though, shocking him even. Though he knew she had some affection for him, to hear her bluntly declare her love for him both shocked and touched him to the core of his being, ghostly or not. Was it any wonder if Isabelle was jealous" But she had let him go years and years ago and no longer held sway over him or his heart. "I have loved you all your life, Katrina," he whispered back, or at least, since the first moment he'd met her when she'd been just a child. It had been a different kind of love then, but it had only grown over the years as she had grown into a woman.

Palm to palm, ghost to woman, Kit felt closer to him in that moment than she had felt to anyone in her lifetime. "So stop telling me what I deserve, or what I should have," she said softly. "Just knowing you love me is enough." And yet, she thought she might always have known he loved her, on some level. It made her heart ache to know they would only ever have one night together each year, but that one night would be enough. It would have to be. No one else would ever be able to take his place.

And yet, he felt the need to point out all the things she'd never have and never know if she chose to give her heart to him, though she most likely knew already. "I can never give you children," he told her, quietly and with obvious sorrow. "I can never leave this house or these grounds. I can't take you to dinner or out dancing. Even if we live an entire year in one night, I can never leave here, Kit. I am trapped here, a prisoner in this house forever. Even after you're gone, I will still be trapped here, unless..."

"Unless your faith can be restored."

Kit looked up, startled. That was not a voice she knew, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once, and for the briefest moment, she thought she saw that old haunting woman standing in the shadows by the window. Like a child, she dived under the covers, the blankets held over her head, proving that the instinct that had let her trust Randal only applied to him. All other ghosts were the boogeyman.

Even Randal had heard that voice, as clear as day. Even after nearly a century, there was no mistaking it. It was the voice of his wife, long since deceased, though not by his hand. No, if anyone was to blame for a death, it was her to blame for his. "Isabelle!" he called, moving to his feet and turning toward the sound of the voice, but there was already no one there. "Show yourself! What is it you want?"

There was no answer. That brief haunting was gone as quickly as it had come, with no answers but that which had been given. What had urged her to show herself now, if only for a moment'

Beneath the covers, Kit held her eyes tightly closed, wishing - as she had done ever since she had first encountered that female shape in the darkness - for the woman to go away and leave her alone.

"My faith in what"!" he called after the darkness, receiving no answer in return. He waited a long moment, hoping she would reappear, if only to give him some answers. Why was she here" What did she want' Was she somehow trapped by the circumstances of his death, too, or was she trying to help them' No answer came. At least, not now. He turned back to Kit, only to find her buried under the covers. "Kit!" he called, a little impatiently before gentling his voice. He wasn't upset with her, after all. "It's all right. She's gone."

Very slowly, the bundle under the covers moved. Kit emerged, her eyes wide and frightened, only daring to raise her head from under the protection of her blankets because Randal assured her their visitor was gone once again. "W-was that her?"

"I think so," he replied. "I didn't see her, but it was her voice. I can't imagine what she meant or what she'd want," he continued, still standing. "You said there's a spirit board in the attic?" he asked. He'd heard of them, but had never had any reason to make use of one.

She nodded, her eyes straying to the shadow where, just for a moment, she had seen Isabelle watching them. "I found it a few days ago," she said quietly, shaken by the unexpected visitation. "There's an engraving on the back - I think Nana must have had it made, because it has my grandfather's name on it."

"Oh," he muttered, trying to remember if her grandmother had ever mentioned it. He knew she'd been devastated by her husband's death, and though Randal couldn't do much to help, his companionship seemed to have given her some comfort. "I didn't know she had one." So, there were some things that even the ghost of the house didn't know.